No Light
by SimplexityJane
Summary: "You don't trust me. I don't trust you." The saddest thing is that it's true, and Stiles doesn't know why. Fair warning, this is pure smut. With a lot of swearing thrown in.


**I hurt myself with this story. I'm still hurting, because this is the saddest thing I've ever written. It was just supposed to be angry sex! Hot, angry sex, but then Stiles had to have feelings and Derek was suddenly up in my business all, "Hey, I wouldn't actually do it with a virgin up against a wall." Especially when they're his mate.**

**Also, Stiles has a dirty fucking mind.**

* * *

_"You don't trust me. I don't trust you."_

It's not like it was planned or anything. Because it definitely wasn't. On a list of things planned for in Stiles's life, getting fucked into a wall wasn't one of them. (Well, it was. But he wasn't about to admit that little fantasy aloud.)

"Shit," he hisses, because Derek's biting into the meat of his shoulder and it fucking hurts. But for some reason he's leaning into the pain, baring his neck and practically begging for more because this is his life. Broody werewolves slam him against his wall and basically force him out of his clothes, and he likes it. Lusts after it. Keeps Derek from relocating them and watches avidly as his eyes bleed with red.

"Here?" Derek grunts, smirk wicked even though he almost died a few hours ago. Whatever reason he's decided that now it's okay for him to fuck Stiles (_"I don't trust you."_), why, even with hypothermia and whatever else the pool had given him in fond farewell, Stiles agrees, holds Derek there with a hand digging into his bicep.

"That a problem?" he asks, all false bravado. And Derek fucking smiles, and it's not that flirty, fake, I'm-not-really-here smile he used at the police station. This smile makes Stiles want to ram his fucking head in, superiority in every line of his body, watch it crumble until Stiles can finally get it through his thick skull that Derek doesn't need to act like an ass around him. He bites at that mouth, tastes blood for an instant, lets Derek cradle his head with fingers that are claws. He's trying to scare Stiles, maybe trying to get him to back out of this, but Stiles stopped being afraid of Derek the day he had to resort to baiting him.

(_"I'm the one keeping you alive."_)

Everything is burning, his skin, his hands clutching at the mass of flesh in front of him, and he can't breathe, because this isn't supposed to be like this. He shouldn't be so needy after a kiss that was more like a fight, shouldn't be clinging to someone who thinks he's useless in all the ways that matter.

He shouldn't care so fucking much.

"Fuck me," he grinds out between clenched teeth. "Hard, make it-" _Hurt_, he wants to say. _Mark me, keep me, why the fuck don't you trust me when I feel like this about you?_ He keeps his mouth shut, barely, glares at Derek to keep from hyperventilating. And Derek- Derek just stands there for a minute. Staring at Stiles like he can read his mind, but he's clenching his fists together and they're not touching everywhere anymore and Stiles realizes Derek's actually forcing himself not to change. Like he just realized what he's doing and he thinks it's wrong.

"No," Stiles says, and his hand is behind Derek's neck and he's kissing him, open mouthed and too messy to actually be any good, and Derek is backing them up until suddenly there's a very real sense of disorientation and then they're on the bed, his bed, cold and almost terrifying because they were in this position earlier, weren't they?

(_"You need me to survive."_)

He wraps himself around Derek like some sort of octopus, shivering unexpectedly and trying not to question the way the hot hand in the center of his back was more comforting than anything else.

"Sh, I've got you," Derek says, and Stiles wants to complain that he can't say something like that, not when he _doesn't trust him_ and fuck Derek, he doesn't know what Stiles thinks about him.

Then he's on his back and looking up someone's nostrils really isn't that sexy. Nope. Not sexy at all. Except when they're Derek Hale's nostrils, apparently. He's getting Stiles's lube anyway, so that probably makes up for the awkwardness of nose hairs. And then he's back, and he's just staring, even though Stiles can barely see a thing. He's blushing, wonders if Derek can see that.

"So," he says, because Stiles is king of awkward silences. And Derek, because he is Derek, just kisses him, slow and deep and fucking filthy while he trails a hand down Stiles's chest.

Later Stiles will analyse it in detail, how slow Derek is, how every kiss seems to shift some part in him until it's unbearable to sit still, until Derek is four fingers deep and Stiles feels like the fact that he came already doesn't even matter. It doesn't help that Derek looks like he's having some sort of religious experience (points to Stilinski), even if he's grinning like the devil when Stiles practically begs.

It's too much, and Stiles knows it. Derek's holding him up and they're staring at each other, so Stiles can see the moment when Derek loses that last wall, when he has to hold on to the bedpost because otherwise he'd go flying off. And there's this salt on his cheeks, but he's not sure where it came from because he doesn't have anything to cry about.

Even when Derek is gone in the morning.

(_"That's why you're not. Letting me. Go."_)


End file.
